On Your Mark
by Ms. Pagliacci
Summary: Bullseye is hired by a young woman's father to prevent her from becoming an assassin. Though it is not his typical sort of assignment, he accepts. Has he found a kindred spirit or a lost soul? Feedback is appreciated!
1. Get Set

A/N: I claim no ownership of any copy rited material(s).

_Fisk had better be right about this guy_, Bullseye thought as he paced the reception area of the Montesano business complex. The secretary eyed him nervously as he strode from one corner of the waiting room to the other. The door to his possible employer's office opened, and a nondescript man of about forty stepped out and looked at him with obvious condescension. Bullseye only gave him an unimpressed once-over and a sneer. _Have I seen that prick before?_ He wondered to himself. He was almost certain he had, but his features were so unremarkable that Bullseye really could not tell.

He looked over at the secretary with arched eyebrows. "Um…go ahead in," she said, avoiding eye contact with him.

"Thank ye." He mumbled, and turned his back on her, walking into Montesano's office without knocking.

The man behind the desk was dressed in a dark, pinstriped suit that screamed money and power. However, his posture did not. He was huddled over paperwork, with his elbows on the desk. His salt and pepper hair was disheveled with several locks hanging over his furrowed brow, and it was not until Bullseye less than inconspicuously cleared his throat that he acknowledged the assassin.

"Bullseye," Daniel Montesano said, taking in the darkly-clad younger man.

Bullseye touched several fingers to the scar on his forehead and made a slight bow. "Aye," he said, managing a grin that was really more of a leer.

"Have a seat, if you like." Montesano offered. He regarded Bullseye as the hit man considered the offer, but chose to remain standing.

"You came highly recommended by Wilson Fisk. I need someone who is unaffiliated with any of my company's…goings-on." Montesano said as he opened a desk drawer, withdrew a folder, and set it on the desk, sliding it over to Bullseye who, after a moment picked it up and tucked it under his left arm and then waited for his host to continue.

"Everything you need to know about your job is in the folder. My daughter, Lark, has been given a contract on this man." Bullseye scratched the stubble on his chin and allowed his gaze to wander. Despite the fact that the color scheme of Montesano's office was predominantly cold, Bullseye noted the pictures that adorned the walls. In one was a child of perhaps seven with auburn hair and huge, blue eyes standing by a garden of roses. (He was reminded of Fisk. _Stupid roses_, he thought.) In another photo was a young woman who had to be the same person as the child in the other picture, only aged by about a decade. She sat astride a dappled stallion, holding a first-prize ribbon, and grinning broadly. He allowed his dark eyebrows to arch slightly. Bullseye found himself wondering how this girl had been raised. What would make her want to become a killer? There was a familiarity in this. Although he wanted to believe the girl to be a spoiled brat who needed her ass beaten a few times, it would be a long time before he'd forget another beauty and rival assassin who showed him a great fight.

"I'm willing to pay you fifty grand for you to get to him before she does." Though he tried to remain un-astounded, Bullseye blinked. He liked that number. He nodded, and turned to walk out, but stopped when Montesano said, "Wait."

Bullseye halted, though it was certainly not customary for him to respond to anyone's command. He turned to see Montesano standing –he was actually taller than Bullseye had initially thought –with a pleading expression on his face. Bullseye was unable to keep his mouth from grinning ever so slightly. _Wait_ was not a command directed at him; Montesano was begging.

"Yeah?" Bullseye asked casually.

"I also need you to assure that my daughter is returned to my estate safely. She's been away for the past few days and it was only by pure luck that I found out what was going to happen. She can't fall into that business. I…"

"I'm not in the baby-sittin' business, Mr. Montesano. I'll do the guy for thirty thousand, but…"

"You didn't let me finish." Montesano said patiently. "In addition to fifty thousand for the kill, I will pay you another fifty thousand for Lark's safe return."

Bullseye shifted his weight form one foot to the other, taking into consideration the job description. It wasn't like he _needed_ the money, but one hundred large would be a pretty chunk of change to have. So what if half the money wasn't earned from having put an end to a life? It would probably be the easiest money he had made in a while. He'd kill his target, return the girl to her father's side then be on his way back to New York.

"A'right." He said, taking one last look at the photographs of Lark Montesano.

Daniel Montesano watched Bullseye exit his office as he wondered (ironically) to himself just what kind of assassin Wilson Fisk had sent to him. Most he dealt with were chameleons, able to come and go, indistinguishable from any other Joe on the street. Not this man, though. No, his dark clothes, and piercings; his entire persona was meant for one thing: intimidation. Then there was that unnerving glint in his dark eyes. Daniel shuddered inwardly. This mad man was supposed to save his daughter?

Hopefully Lark would be back in her rightful home soon. There was no time to bring in anybody else. If she succeeded, Lark would only be endangering herself. _How could she not see this_? Reseating himself, he swiveled his leather chair to look at the picture of his daughter standing by her mother's rose garden. She'd been six years old and Celia had enlisted their daughter's help in pruning her flowers. Lark had seized one of the flowers by the stem, and promptly found out that there were more to roses than just the beauty of the crimson petals. Celia had comforted her, cleaning the blood from Lark's tiny hands and instructing her in how to better handle the treacherous blooms.

The groundskeepers had taken over Celia's garden after she died the winter after that picture was taken. His wife had left them and he watched his daughter grow into a far wilder rose than her mother had been. Lark had gained her mother's beauty and intelligence, but there was an odd detachment about his daughter that he blamed himself for. After he died she could, take over his business. He did not doubt that his daughter had the ability to so, but he would not allow it. He had already set aside provisions so that she would not have to worry about finances. She could live her life and be relatively untouched by his…business._ If Celia were alive, none of this would have happened_, he thought weakly to himself.

Running a hand through his graying hair, he sighed and returned to his paperwork. He was not looking forward to sitting through a board meeting and listening to proposals. Perhaps that evening he would go to his stable. When he went there anymore, it was to impress prospective clients; it had been a long time since he had gone there just for the hell of it. Maybe he would even be joined by his daughter. In the back of his mind, Daniel wondered if Bullseye's namesake scar had been self-inflicted.

Lark fastened her dagger into the sheath that was hidden beneath her red spaghetti strap shirt that fit her tightly enough to be appealing to the opposite sex and yet loosely enough to conceal her weapon. She watched herself in the full-length mirror as she did so. She'd done her make up, braided her hair and even took more than two minutes to assemble an outfit. _All of this for a guy I'm gonna kill_, she thought with a slight smile. She guided a belt through the belt loops of her black jeans which were comfortable and would be fairly easy to run in should events go awry. Inspecting her appearance in the mirror, she refrained from striking any action hero-esque poses. Her azure eyes were intelligent, her features sharp. She felt awkward in these clothes. In the back of her mind, she wondered if she had accessorized well enough. Though her body may have been small, she knew she could defend herself; of that she _was _confident.

She would let Salazar Gianatiempo take her out to dinner and maybe a movie and once the time was right…what was she going to do again? _Oh, yeah_, she thought, _the old knife-through-the-heart_. She could do it; she'd done it before; the only difference was, this time it would be for a profit. She suddenly felt cold.

She rehearsed her plan in her mind, taking her mind off of other unfortunate events. She would meet Gianatiempo at his restaurant, _Magdalena's_ (It was a place she would have dined at regularly if her business had been different. The restaurant, which was popular among the locals, was casual and had the best chicken parmesan she'd ever tasted.), and would allow herself to be dragged through a 'date' until she would get him alone. Unfortunately for him, it wouldn't be the 'alone time' she would lead him to believe it would be. After her dagger had produced the desired effect, she would gather the belongings from the hotel then relocate to New York. She knew her home at her father's estate would not be uprooted. Her mother's touch on the interior design of the house, her mother's clothing, and other belongings had not been moved or modified in any way by her father in the sixteen years since her death. Lark was unsure whether or not she would return there, but knowing she could was everything.

Grabbing her black, leather _Louis Viton_ purse from the bed in her hotel room, she walked toward the door and then repositioned herself in front of the mirror. _Should I have gone tanning_? Then thought: _Nah_.

Standing in the hotel room he had checked into under the name 'Benjamin Poindexter,' Bullseye looked at the quarter-sized scars on each of his hands, trying to remember the pain, yet somehow, he couldn't.

He sat on the twin bed in his hotel room reading over the dossier Montesano had provided him with. Salazar Gianatiempo had deep connections with the mob and…_Blah, blah, blah,_ Bullseye thought, _learning your opponent is necessary, no doubt,_ _but_ _offing this Mafioso moron is gonna be far too easy_. His mark had nothing to bring to the game. The part about Lark Montesano was far more interesting. As well as being a gorgeous young woman, she was a sixth degree black belt and, like himself –though, to a much lesser degree, he was sure –an accomplished marksman. Bullseye wondered if it was truly Lark Montesano's career choice that distressed her father to such a degree that he would shell out one hundred big ones just to keep her from killing a man who was probably in competition with his business anyway. _Could it really be a father's love?_ Bullseye thought to himself with a dry, sarcastic chuckle.

In the folder, Montesano specifically stated that he was under no circumstances to use any drugs or unnecessary physical force. Perhaps this would present more of a challenge than he originally thought.


	2. Go

_A/N:_ Hmm…second chapter of my first fanfic. I'm not sure where this is gonna go…

_Shit!_ Lark thought. _Why does this guy have to be such a good date?_ She twirled some pasta around some chicken with her fork and spoon while Salazar Gianatiempo, or Sal, as he preferred to be called, regaled her with a story about the time his mother had attempted to do laundry while their maids were away. She had shrunk his favorite shirt, a Spider-man tee.

"You'll have to meet her," he said with a chuckle, "she actually made the recipe for the chicken parmesan you're eating." Lark could only smile, nod, and mumble a noncommittal agreement.

"Really?" she asked. "This is delicious. I could eat it all the time!"

"Yeah," he said. "Well, her mother, my grandmother started it, but my mom perfected it. What was it she said? Oh yeah, 'Secret's in the sauce,' she'd said. I swear I've heard that somewhere else before, though."

Sal stabbed absently at his pasta dish as he pondered where his mother had come across that appropriate line. Lark would have told him that it was from _Fried Green Tomatoes_, but then he would have to confess to having watched a 'chick flick.' _Ugh!_ She thought, thoroughly disgusted with herself; _you're going be killing this guy in about half hour or so and you're worried about calling his masculinity into question? Pull it together, already!_

"Ah well," Sal said, giving up on the thought, "Let's be thankful she's a better chef than a maid!"

"Yeah," she agreed with a smile that she hoped looked genuine.

Sal began to drone on about a movie he had just watched and Lark thought about asking him if he'd ever watched any of the _God Father_ movies. (She had, and she'd enjoyed them too.) Lark peered across the table at her mark. He kept his long, dark hair tied back in a neat ponytail, and while his nose was somewhat prominent, he was not at all unattractive. Her dagger seemed to press on her side a little harder.

* * *

Bullseye had walked past the front window of Magdalena's to confirm that Lark and Gianatiempo were indeed dining there. As he seated himself on a bench in the small park across the street from the restaurant, he touched his fingers to his belt, reassuring himself that his shuriken were in place.

His decided plan of action was to wait until the two exited Magdalena's, throw a strike then collect the extra baggage that came with this assignment. He kept a pair of hand cuffs in the right pocket of his coat, deciding that that would be the best way to subdue Lark. She would take him to her car and he would drive them several hours back to the Montesano estate.

A young couple jogged by with a mutt in tow. _What a pretty picture_, he scoffed sarcastically to himself. The pastel shades of their tailored jogging suits irritated him to no extent. Though it would have been ever so satisfying to take one or both of them out, he reminded himself to practice some self-control while on the job,. Instead, he unclipped a shuriken, and with a swift, fluid motion sent it sailing through the air. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the throwing star severed the leash and released the dog, which promptly sprinted from its owners.

He smiled to himself as the pair ran after their pet, yelling its name. _Blinky? Why would anyone name an animal that? _Bullseye wondered. In releasing the dog, he decided that he had done the currently wayward pooch a favor. He slouched back on the bench and waited.

* * *

Sal wiped his mouth with a burgundy napkin and then set in on the table. "Would you like desert?" he asked. "The tira masu's great."

Se couldn't have eaten more if she wanted to, and she told herself that she could no longer delay the inevitable, although, she found, she desperately wanted to. She shifted guiltily in her seat. "No, thanks, I couldn't eat any more if I wanted to."

"Okay." Sal hailed the waitress and asked for the check.

Lark chewed her lower lip nervously. "Can you excuse me for a minute?" she asked and was surprised to hear her voice waver slightly.

"Of course; are you feeling okay?" he asked, with genuine concern on his face.

"Oh, yeah, I just need to, uh…freshen up," she said, trying to think of a girlish excuse to get away.

"The ladies' room is down the hall and to the right," he said, helpfully.

Lark shut and locked the door of the restroom behind her. As she rested her palms on the sink, the muscles in her shoulders bunched with tension. She urged herself to breathe as her eyes welled with tears. Why did she feel so guilty? Never mind the fact that he was the best date she'd had in years, this man had probably paid for the killings of multiple people and…_so what does that make me?_

She had, until then, successfully avoided thinking about repercussions of her job (well, other than the money that would be in her pocket). She would be taking away a woman's son, for whom she would never more make delicious chicken parmesan; she would be taking another human's life.

_You've done it before, so stop your blubbering! Remember? You're a killer!_ She mentally snapped at herself. Letting out a shaky breath, she told herself: _This is what I chose_. Running her hand down her side, she felt the reassuring shape of her dagger. "This is what I chose," she said aloud.

After quickly reapplying some eyeliner and giving herself a once-over, she exited the bathroom. _This is what _I_ chose_, she kept reminding herself.

* * *

Bullseye was examining the texture of his skull cap when, at last, his quarry exited _Magdalena's_. Before standing, he observed their movement. Gianatiempo held Lark's hand and she allowed him (what looked from where Bullseye was sitting, anyway) a tender kiss on her mouth. Bullseye saw a grin spread across Lark's face as she led the slightly older man around the corner, into an alleyway.

Bullseye blinked in mild surprise. _Maybe_ I _should ask her out_, he thought with a slight grin. He hadn't anticipated the young Montesano to go about business in that manner, but at least his time of waiting had ended. _Let the fun and games begin!_ He thought, as he experienced an odd sort of glee. This feeling was amplified in that he would soon be taking the kill away from his competition.

Pulling his cap over his head, he crossed the street -not even bothering to look for cars -and disappeared into the alleyway, following his prey. Slipping from shadow to shadow in silence, it wasn't long before he found Lark and Gianatiempo up against a brick wall. Bullseye saw Lark begin to pull up her crimson shirt, but he had a feeling that it wasn't for the man's pleasure.

Even in the darkness, Bullseye could see the hilt of the dagger that Lark had hidden under her clothes. With an incomprehensible speed, he sent a shuriken from his hand and into the throat of Salazar Gianatiempo, effectively ending his life. _An easy fifty grand_, he thought contentedly.

Lark drew her weapon from its sheath as she whirled around, allowing Gianatiempo's lifeless body to slump to the alley floor. She looked at Bullseye with wide, fierce, blue eyes. "You killed him!" she growled. There was surprise in her voice, yes, but neither fear nor compassion for her former date.

"Havin' sharp objects imbedded in your throat tends ta do that to ye," he retorted smartly as he walked confidently toward her with his coattails slapping at the air behind him.

* * *

A familiar rage seized Lark as she flew into a flurry of action, attacking the man who had just taken her job from her. Though she was swift with her assaulting motions, he successfully blocked all of her attempts. Lunging at him in a downward arc with her knife, she sliced into the man's upper arm (if she injured him, he gave no indication of any pain he may have experienced), but was knocked off balance by him as he gave her vulnerable shoulder a nudge. She didn't fall but a swift kick to the back of her knee fixed that. (Lark was certain that the man used only a small fraction of his strength to put her on the ground.) She recovered quickly, only to see that he was twirling a pair of handcuffs from his right index finger.

"Okay, Girlie," he said as though her were talking to a child with whom he was quickly loosing patience, "You're comin' with me."

_Fat chance_, she thought as she lunged at him another time.

* * *

As the girl attacked him, Bullseye had to continually remind himself to keep his actions defensive. The laceration on his bicep stung, but he ignored the pain and continued to block Lark's appendages, waiting for the opportunity to hand-cuff her.

Finally, she took a swing at his head and missed. Turning with her, he wrapped his left arm around her right, and twisted her wrist just enough to get her to relinquish her dagger. He placed a cuff over her right wrist and clasped it. As he pulled her secure arm behind her back, she tried to whirl around to strike him with her free arm, but he caught her by the wrist with little difficulty.

Once the cuffs were on, the fight; unfortunately did not end there. She wriggled, kicked, and bit him when he tried to put his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. It was all Bullseye could do to keep from smashing her over the head if only to get her to stop. She was vicious.

"Would ye stop!" he hissed, as he loosened his grip and spun her around to look her in the eye. "I'm not goin' ta hurt ye, so just stop it!"

She continued to struggle futilely for a few more seconds, but then slowly calmed her motion. Her azure eyes blazed up at him with both fear and with malicious intent, yet he maintained her gaze.

"Good," he breathed, thankful that nobody had responded to her cries for help. "Now, where's yer car?"

* * *

Her captor didn't bother using any lines like 'Don't try anything funny,' for which she was thankful. She wouldn't; she was smarter than that. Obviously he (or whoever hired him) wanted her alive and attempting any funny-business would only get other people hurt or killed.

Though it was far too large for her, he had draped his leather coat over her, hiding the fact that her arms were pinioned behind her back. He kept his right arm around her shoulders as they walked, giving any potential onlookers the impression that he was merely a boyfriend keeping his girlfriend warm in the cool, autumn air. Glancing at him periodically, she became convinced that she knew him; maybe not personally, but there was something familiar about him.

"That's it," she said, nodding her head to indicate the black, Mustang convertible that was parked in front of a drug store.

"Nice," he said. "Keys?"

"Right pants pocket," she said through clinched teeth. She glared at him, wanting so badly to free herself and beat this guy senseless. (She told herself that it was her large meal that made her slow.) He reached for her waste and much to her delight; she saw that she had indeed wounded him.

To her surprise, he didn't touch her in any lewd manner; he simply acquired the keychain from her pocket as easily as though she had handed them to him. (In the back of her mind was a scenario of a younger version of this man, living on the street, and picking pockets like a contemporary Artful Dodger.) He clicked the 'un-lock' button and opened the passenger's side door for her.

"Ladies first," he said with a grin that would have been charming were it not for the insanity that shone in his eyes. _Yes_, she thought. _I know this guy_.

* * *

Bullseye slid into the driver's seat only to find that his knees nearly touched his ears. Repositioning the seat, he paused before putting the key marked with the 'Ford' symbol into the ignition, and regarded Lark Montesano for a moment, and wondered again why she would have chosen the career she did. She certainly did not lack the ferocity in her skills, but what engendered in her the will to kill? He did it because he enjoyed it; that wasn't something he tried to deny. Death, ironically, was his livelihood.

As he turned the key in the ignition, the CD player blared Slayer's _Killing Fields_. He looked at her again as he pulled the car away from the curb. What? Indeed.

Chapter 3 Coming Soon! (Or, in all honesty, whenever I get around to it.)


	3. Advice

A/N: So…here's the latest installment: Bullseye gets bored and has a little fun and more is revealed about Lark. Enjoy!

The clock radio read 11:13 p.m.

So many questions ran through her mind, but mostly she wondered what destination was in store for her. Switching her position to a less uncomfortable one, she felt tired. No, not tired, maybe, but an odd sense of relief. She remembered how her chest had began to hitch while she began to reach for her dagger, the one that she was going to plunge through an unsuspecting man's heart. Between kisses, Sal had asked her what the matter was and then…

_Who is this guy?_ She wondered furiously. She knew she'd seen him before, but where?

After the CD had stopped, her driver had turned the stereo off, which she was glad of at first. The quiet, however, grew into something ugly. She wriggled beneath the heavy coat, suddenly feeling suffocated by it. As it slid off of her shoulders, felt a sense of relief.

Her need for answers winning out, Lark finally broke the silence by asking "Where _are_ we going?" Though she didn't expect an answer, she asked in a manner in which she hoped would let him know that she had resigned herself to whatever aim he had in mind.

She looked down at her lap dejectedly, but just as she thought he wasn't going to answer her, he spoke up. "Yer goin' home te yer Da," he said, without taking his eyes off of the road.

She blinked at him, unsure how to feel. As she understood what happened, both relief and shame washed over her. So, her father knew of her career choice. Her father had hired this man to kill her mark and bring her home unscathed by his world of business, lies, and deception. _Too late for that, Daddy_, she thought with what she knew was bitterness that her father did not deserve. _Well_, she thought, _at least I'm not being sold into a sex-slave ring._

* * *

_So bored_, Bullseye thought as he tried futilely to keep his attention on the road.

Bullseye grinned ever so slightly as he took the Mustang around a turn too fast, sending Lark into the passenger-side door. After she thumped against the door, helpless to protect herself against the momentum, something like a snarl erupted from the girl's throat. Arching his eyebrows in surprise and amusement, he looked away from the road and stared at her with an intense gaze, and jammed his foot down harder on the accelerator.

Lark's eyes shot from his to the road and shrieked: "Watch the road, damn it!" and slouched as low in her seat as she possibly could.

Bullseye let his eyes linger a moment longer and then saw that they were getting a little too close to the guardrail for comfort. Grinning, he pulled the car back onto the road then looked over at Lark, who was most definitely not returning his smile.

"What the hell is your _problem_?" she fumed, kicking the dashboard of her own car.

"What is it with women always tellin' men how to drive?" he countered with a grin.

"Sorry I suggested that you not get us killed!" she shot back.

His grin only broadened as he took his hands off of the wheel. _So this is his game_, she thought. She knew that he knew that using those scare tactics was unnecessary, but he did it anyway. _Why?_ She wondered. _For fun?_ While praying that she would not be horribly mangled, Lark did her best to feign boredom, despite the fact that they were headed toward a tree. _Don't_ _crash, don't crash, don't crash!_ She screamed inwardly.

She saw that a look of disappointment crossed the man's face as he placed his hands back on the wheel and calmly regained control of the vehicle. As the car sped on, Lark let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. That grin promptly returned to his features.

"If you wrecked my car, I would have had to kill you," she said. She then erupted into wild laughter that caught her driver off guard. "Kill you?" she asked, lifting her trembling shoulders into a manic shrug. "How would I kill you?" She attempted to look behind her to where her hands were held tightly by the cuffs. She began to giggle even louder.

* * *

"Ugh. Kill you!" she said as though it were some joke that he should be sharing in. He now divided his attention between the road and the apparently hysterical Lark. This is not how he pictured her reaction. He wouldn't have let ruin come to Lark, or the car (and certainly not himself), he was just attempting to add some entertainment value to the car ride back to the Montesano estate.

Tears streamed down her face. _Oh, please don't need a shoulder to cry on_, he mentally pleaded with her. In a voice that was humorless despite the wild grin on her face she asked, "Who are you?" She sounded as though she had given up on a riddle that she could just not get. Frankly, he was insulted.

The man pulled off his skull cap, but said nothing. Looking at the rear-view mirror at his reflection, she saw the scar on his forehead, and it dawned on her. "Bullseye," she said with a touch of awe in her voice.

She had seen his picture before. When she was studying other hit men, she'd found his photo particularly interesting. She had even traced her finger over the scar while wondering about him.

"Aye," he said. The grin returned to his face.

"Wow," she said dumbly, not really knowing what else could be said. "So how much is my dad paying you?" Her father had to be shelling out a pretty penny for her return; she was curious.

"Fifty large." His reply came without any prying. She whistled softly.

They drove on in silence until Bullseye asked her a question that caught her off guard. "Are ye goin' te try it again? The job, I mean."

Her brow furrowed. She hadn't even considered it. Was there a point in continuing? She could only recall the overwhelming sense of relief she'd felt when she realized she wouldn't be the one to kill Gianatiempo. With a humorless chuckle, she said, "I _chose_ this."

* * *

Glancing over at Lark, Bullseye would have sworn she'd aged by a decade. Her hair was now unkempt and eyeliner had smudged to form dark rims below her eyes, which stared out the window with an unsettling intensity. He opened his mouth to ask why she 'chose this', but no words formed, so he just continued to drive.

"I'm a killer." She said this with a chilling simplicity. "I was seventeen when the head of my father's security unit decided that he wanted to have a little too much fun."

Bullseye grimaced, the origins of the girl's ferocity suddenly becoming clear.

"One night he chased me to my bedroom, and…" another chuckle, "my dad had bought me that dagger the week before and I'd had it lying out on my dresser that night."

He looked her in the eye and had a pretty good idea of how the story would end. _It is a very nice knife_, he thought to himself.

"He didn't believe me when I told him I'd kill him," she recalled. "He should have. He attacked me and I stabbed him though the heart and then I dumped his corpse down the well that's on our property." There was no remorse in her voice for what she had done, yet there was something there that made even Bullseye uncomfortable. (Although, he had to admit he admired the efficiency with which she maneuvered in that situation.)

"He should have believed me." She repeated with a biting bitterness in her voice. "I thought that if I could kill that easily, that I could make a business out of it. I have the connections and everything so…why not?"

"Only this time it was different, yeah?" He asked. She looked at him with what he thought was shame in her features.

"Yeah," she said, nibbling her lower lip.

"Datin' the guy probably didn't help yer cause." He said, trying to make a joke, but he was fairly certain it didn't help. She snorted derisively and gave a dry chuckle.

"Ya think so?" she asked with an eye-roll. She smiled despite herself.

The car was silent again.

* * *

Lark thought over Bullseye's question and honestly did not think she would carry on a career as a hit man…_er, woman_, she amended mentally. She did not lack the capacity to kill, but really, did any human? _I _can_ choose something else_, she thought, finally giving herself permission to thick such a thing.

She reached this decision with more than a little frustration. She'd spent a great amount of time and energy bending her will to become ruthless, lethal, and without remorse…just like the man now sitting next to her. She wasn't like him; she wasn't like him at all, and she knew she could never be.

Bullseye pulled the car over to the shoulder of the road and put the car into park. "What?" Lark questioned in a resigned, somewhat weary voice.

"Do ye want the cuffs off o' yer wrists?" he asked, pulling keys from his dark pants.

She blinked at him, hoping it wasn't another one of his awkward little 'jokes.' "Yeah," she said with a relieved smile, and turned to allow Bullseye to unbind her.

Before he removed the cuffs, Lark felt him lift the back of her shirt. Going rigid, she said in a low voice that would make the blood of most men run cold; "Don't touch me."

Bullseye only tisked. "What's this? Does yer Da know about that?"

It took a moment to register with Lark what he meant and then she realized he was talking about her tattoo. For her eighteenth birthday, she'd had the tattoo etched into the flesh of her lower back. It was of her own design. With sharp, black, looping wisps of ink, it was what she called 'Celtic with a gothic edge.'

Sighing audibly, she said "No, he doesn't know." She didn't know why she never told or showed her father; it's not like he would have grounded her or even raised an eyebrow at it. She supposed she just wanted to keep it her own little secret. (Then again, her job was supposed to be a secret, so maybe he knew about the mark on her flesh as well.)

She felt the cuffs unclasp and she immediately began massaging her wrists and rolling her shoulders in an attempt to banish the soreness that the prolonged immobility had caused. "Thank you," she said.

"Don' mention it."

* * *

Montesano sat heavily in his red, leather armchair with a _Lambrusco_, wondering just how high his blood pressure had gotten. Though his daughter's well-being reigned chiefly in his mind, the events of the day's last business meeting replayed in his mind.

Garret Shelby had been looking into investing heavily in Montesano's developing technologies. Outwardly, the young man had been evenly tempered until the deal had not gone as he'd wished. Shelby's funding proposal had certainly been more than generous, but the rate at which he expected results was simply unreasonable.

After having debated the issue for an hour and a half, Montesano finally declined the deal. The younger man became absolutely livid, making the sturdy, wooden table rattle as he slammed his fists down on it. After Shelby shouted a most uncalled for death threat, promising a slow, painful demise, Montesano had (as calmly as he could) pressed the intercom and asked his secretary, Katherine to have security escort Mr. Shelby from the premises.

As several of his guards (Rich and Alan) entered, Shelby instantly calmed himself, seeing that he was no match for the two, burly security workers. Allowing himself to be led out of the office, he shot a malicious glare toward Montesano, probably about to say something like: 'This isn't over.'

Daniel Montesano mulled the situation over in his head, but could not for the life of him recall having done anything to have sparked such ire in the man. He'd been honest with Shelby, telling him that the product would not be even close to ready for testing in such a short amount of time. Wasn't that better than not having his expectations met and his money wasted? Or had Shelby actually expected to bully results out of him and his lab?

Taking another sip of whine, Daniel Montesano recalled how after the meeting, Al Denison, with whom he'd had a meeting earlier that day (right before he'd hired an obviously psychotic hit man to _rescue_ his daughter), had actually tried to convince him, almost desperately so, to accept Shelby's offer. After regarding his business associate with a certain amount of aggravation, Daniel had given him a stern '_No_,' and turned away from him.

The discussion did not continue.

Now he sat, looking at a family photo that hanged on the wall opposite him. Lark's wide, blue eyes, Celia's unfailingly beautiful smile. Daniel looked at himself. His hair hadn't a gray strand and he didn't look nearly as weary; they looked happy. What had happened to his daughter? Why would she kill? She certainly had no need of the money. She couldn't possibly be some sadistic murderer, could she?

Sitting in the small den where he and Celia used to enjoy reading when they could spare the time (Celia would read a suspense novel and he had always fancied Westerns. She had insisted that he not bring his work into that room.), Daniel searched his mind and heart, but found no answers to his desperate questions.

Montesano's emotional plight was immediately banished from his thoughts when a crash came from another room. The hair on his arms stood; he knew that something wasn't right. The staff had left for the day, and would most likely not have been careless enough to knock anything over. As his mind raced, he wondered why his guards would not have caught this intrusion. His thoughts went back to the volatile situation with Shelby, and he reached beneath the coffee table and retrieved a well-crafted mahogany box. After opening it, he made certain that the cartridge in his 9 mm Glock was loaded.

* * *

By the time Bullseye pulled the Mustang into the estate's long driveway, it was after one o'clock in the morning.

Lark sat slouched in the passenger side seat, deep in thought. For years, she'd thought of herself as a killer. _What _was she? What would she do?

Seeming to sense her mental angst, Bullseye piped up. "Just leave the killin' to the killers." He said.

Knowing somehow that Bullseye was most likely not one to offer advice of any sort, Lark nodded her appreciation for his words.

A/N: I'm now workin' on chapter four. While I had initially intended to make this a short fanfic (one or two chapters following this one) I've got some other ideas jumbled in my head that might make an interesting story. I may add other Marvel characters so…tell me what ya think!!!


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